All the Ways
by Not-What-It-Looks-Like
Summary: ONE SHOT: Charlie, now out of school and living with Sam, mulls over the next big step in their relationship.


Charlie's feet were beginning to hurt. His legs were cramping and his stomach was beginning to really irritate him. Somewhere in his head he told himself that he should go to his bathroom and take something. Some medicines to calm his stomach and his nerves. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so worked up. Not since his psychiatrist had prescribed him the medicines he'd been taking all through college. He couldn't remember the last time he felt a twist in his gut quite like this. Since he couldn't get his hands to stop moving and the world to stop spinning. He knew he used to be like this all the time. And it amazed him how easily he'd let that detail of his life fade from memory. How completely he had forgotten how to function under its thumb.

The strangest part of the matter was the fact that it was entirely his own doing that had his gut twisting and knotting and summersaulting. It was his own thoughts that jumbled his mind and scrambled his brain and forced the glaze of sweat to spread over and leak out of him. Since the idea had hit him well over a month ago he had wondered why he wasn't nervous then. Wondered endlessly why just catching a glimpse of Sam, his beautiful live-in girlfriend, how the words didn't fall out his mouth. How he hadn't tripped over her one night while trying to act normal. How she seemed so oblivious to the way his world had been thrown off kilter by an idea.

Just a simple little idea. By just three words. Three words that had fallen into his head like someone had wacked them into his skull using a mallet. How it was that he'd somehow managed to show no outward signs up until now was some kind of miracle. Or maybe it had been a matter of shock. Denial. Some defense mechanism that refused to accept the reality of the event until he had passed the point of no return. Until plans had been sealed just that afternoon. Until he got home with the jewelry in his pocket.

And now he was shaking. Fraught with worry and wonder and at least a half dozen other emotions that on a good day he could distinguish and write down – the way his doctors had taught him to. The way he'd trained himself to. To breathe and think and then just write. He'd gotten so good at it that now he didn't even have to address things to anybody anymore. It was just enough to have it.

But this was something he couldn't write. Couldn't risk it. And it was driving him wild with anxiety. He couldn't remember the last time he couldn't write about something. But he couldn't take the chance Sam would see. Not that he didn't trust her. He trusted Sam with everything. They were living together, weren't they? He trusted her with almost his whole world. He'd told her everything—everything. He'd trusted her enough not to be scared, not to run away, not to treat him differently, not to hate his Aunt or hate him or his sister or any of the things he had trouble even trusting himself with at times. He trusted her with helping him take his medications. He trusted her with remembering important dates (even though he always remembered them on his own, he just would pretend he didn't). He trusted her to read his stories and tell him what she thought and how he could improve. He trusted her to be honest with him about their relationship and their love and their love lives and their friendship and everything under the sun and in between. He trusted her completely and one way or another he told her everything.

Everything but this. This one thing that he couldn't. Not yet. And even with his private journals that he knew she'd never so much as glanced at, no matter how curious he knew she must have gotten some time, he knew she'd never touched them. But wouldn't it have just been his luck if this one time, not even on purpose, for her to happen upon this particular entry he could not bring himself to chance writing? Be it to tear out a piece for scrap paper or looking through old college notebooks for something or a hundred other reasons people flip through things every day.

No. No, he couldn't take that chance. He'd managed everything else without her knowledge. If he ruined it for himself and for Sam all because he couldn't deal with butterflies in his stomach for a few more hours than that was just ridiculous. Stupid, even. And Charlie tried his best not to be stupid.

And how had he been so sure Sam didn't have the faintest idea? How was he so sure this was what would ruin it, if anything? That she hadn't already figured it out?

Well, firstly, hadn't his head always been a difficult place for her to understand, anyway? Hadn't it been she who once tapped his temple one night as they held each other and said, "I'm this close," and shook her head, her fingers skimming down his skin and forcing a shiver from him that she undoubtedly had been seeking, "This close… and I'm still a million miles from it all."

And he had turned to her at the time, smiling softly, and replied, "I could get you closer."

And he had kept his promise. He had brought her as close to him as he could, and even after it when her fingers were tracing playful circles on skin so seldom touched that she had murmured into his throat that what made her know him then so well was not entirely the act of closeness but the blankness it brought about afterwards. The feelings that they could touch, rather. The ones they had reached deep into each other and brought out of the sky from thin air and coated each other with and swallowed whole. A kind of peace and intimacy that silenced all other thought. Almost. And even then, she argued, she couldn't have it all.

And it drove her mad at times.

He'd apologized to her for it once when she was particularly baffled by the thought process he sat through on a daily basis. He forgot now what it had been that had shown her a glimpse at it. Some comment he'd made on a song that had been playing on the radio, or something he'd asked her to read before he sent it off somewhere. But something that had come from his mind and exited to her by hand or by mouth had left her leaning back and glaring at him. And he'd shriveled under those eyes then.

"How do you do that?" she'd asked.

"I don't know," he'd answered, both sincerely and humbly.

She had just shaken her head and turned her eyes back to wherever they'd been prior, and Charlie had made the mistake of mumbling an apology. He hated the thought he couldn't connect with her.

Well, he had connected alright. She made sure of it. He hadn't even realized it when the sting on the side of his face had registered that Sam had somehow managed her way out of her seat across from him so quickly, or how her hand – however light – had so quickly swiped across his face.

"Never apologize for that," she'd scolded, her words soft but harsh. And he'd never seen her before look so angry with him. But he made sure to never do it again. And that had been well over a year ago, not long after they'd moved in together.

However, it hadn't been that event that had assured him of his endeavors to keep all a secret successful. Rather, it had been the events of just days ago. Specifically: they had fought.

It had been a stupid, little thing. One Sam probably didn't even remember now. He only did because he knew she would never get angry with him if she knew he was nervous about something. No matter how stupid of a thing he'd done, her reprimands would be a fraction of the ferocity they'd sometimes reach when she was aware of his discomfort. She'd let him off with a tender "just don't do it again" — which he was often able to do — but not the other day.

The other day, specifically, she had discovered an important bill wrongly filled and truly torn into him for it.

"You realize how hard I've been looking for this? I thought we hadn't paid!" she had gone on. And it had taken everything in him to not sigh with relief as she did so. Naturally, the reason he'd slipped the notice into the wrong pile earlier that week was because he'd been on a very important call with the jeweler. But, just as naturally, he could not tell her about that, so he'd simply taken the lashing.

"Really, Charlie, sometimes you can just be so…"

"Stupid. I know. I'm sorry."

She had let out a tired sigh and exited the room. The fight was over, but his stomach had only just begun to flutter with butterflies.

Of course those were just a fraction of the ones he was feeling now as he drew ruts into the rugs with his pacing.

Those three words.

Those damn three words.

The ones that had come to him one night with her in his arms. And although the events that had taken place right up to that moment had been invigorating and a definite plus, they were in no way the deciding factor on the thought that popped into his head.

The real reason had been how as Sam settled her head against the crook of his shoulder, exhausted and content, and pressed herself against him it struck Charlie how truly naked they were. Not only physically, but in everything. How he could not think of another person on that Earth who knew more about him or who he knew more about. He could think of no one else who held more of his own heart than he did.

And the thought had, in that moment, been that simple:

_Let's get married. _

And why he hadn't said it then, when it could have been simple like that, was a thing he was kicking himself for now. How it could have been the playful sweet nothings spoken in the afterglow. How they could have let the thought seed and grow in both their minds and not just his. So she could have shared in the painfully exciting burden.

But he also thought it was better this way. Better that he'd managed to let her fall asleep that night with the contents of his mind several million miles from her grasp, where he could harbor them and let them grow from a simple idea to a full blown proposal. To a ring, which he'd managed to get the proper size of through some crafty work on his part involving a nice night out and a "casual" glance into Sam's jewelry drawer as she'd been preparing.

And now the simple thought, the three words, had wrapped their way around him in the pliable metal that was gold, sitting in his pocket and burning a damn hole right through it.

Sam would be home from work, a modest waitressing job as she looked for a more proper career, in just a few hours. Never had each tick of the clock been so poignantly long while equality frighteningly fast for Charlie.

How to do it was the question that popped in his mind, or rather: how to pop the question?

He'd come so far and now things had to be perfect.

He knew Sam loved him. He was surer of it than just about anything else, and she'd reassured him of it daily through more ways than one. From the simple act of saying "I love you" to the more intricate acts of love she performed. In his heart and mind he knew she wouldn't turn him down. It was only that they rarely talked about the future. And although they had moved in together, it had more been out of practicality than romance, though romance had had its time and place in the matter as well.

Both had been searching for a place to stay, both wanted to live in Pittsburgh still, and both wanted out of their family's houses. On top of it both had few things they really planned to bring and both were short on money. They both cared for each other and they both had seen and liked the condo when it went up for sale. Rather than fight over it, they had decided the best choice was to move in together. It had been relatively uneventful or dramatic. The most noteworthy part had been Sam turning to him and in a bawdy tone Charlie had at the time not been so accustomed to said, "So I guess we can be as loud as we want about just about anything now." And that was when they had christened the master bedroom as their own to share.

And though Charlie in no way objected to the memory, he wanted something truly special for this. Something he could capture in his memory and see the breath leave Sam's body as it struck her like a hurricane had dropped down right overtop her. She had told him numerous times not to kill himself over romantic ventures because while she found them sweet they were often "tacky and more trouble then they're worth." In one debate they'd had on the topic Sam had gone on, "It's not that I've got anything against romance, it's just that real romance is never movie romance, and when people try to mimic it with rose petals and candles lit clichés it just always turns out to be a letdown."

But Charlie was convinced he'd defy her generalization. He wanted to make the event the kind somebody could write a song about. The good kind of song that Sam would like. Something that could make her fly, and engrave itself into her memory so that it could never yellow, not even around its edges.

But a single word bounced around in Charlie's head like a rubber ball in a sneaker factory:

_How? _

How to do it? What to say? What to do? What would make it everything he wanted it to be and not be a "letdown"?

Charlie settled himself into a chair in the back of the apartment in the master bedroom. It was a corner he normally reserved for his late night reading and had often been dragged from back to bed. He found it soothing and it was perhaps the one place in their small living space that he could find any comfort in at that moment. Charlie put his head in his hands and began to dream up scenarios.

Should he be waiting for her when she walked in? That very evening? In his mind's eye he saw her walking in, imagined her coat in her hand quickly being discarded on the coat hanger by the door, followed by her shoes. She'd look up to call out to him as she did every day, only to see him standing by the couch.

"What's this?" she'd ask, gesturing to his waiting form.

"Come sit down," he'd say, and pat the seat he stood near. And he could see how the playful suspicion would grow on her face. And when she sat down he'd kneel by her side and take her hand.

"Charlie," she'd giggle, "What are you-?"

"I love you," he'd cut her off, "You know that, right?" And she'd get silent. Or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she'd ask more questions or try to brush him off with some insecure little joking comment, the kind she made more often than he liked hearing. But he wouldn't let her. He'd stop her again, and she might tell him he was being rude, but he assumed she'd forgive him in the scheme of things.

"I do," he'd tell her, "I have for a very long time. Since the first year I met you." He'd never say since he first saw her, because all he'd known then was that she had looked pretty and nice. And maybe he'd never know the exact moment he fell for her, but maybe love didn't quite work like that. And maybe that was exactly what he'd say.

He pictured saying it. "I don't know if there was ever an exact moment when I started loving you, but I know there was never a minute where I stopped. And I don't think I ever will. And you're beautiful and you're so special, Sam, and…"

No. Calling her 'special' didn't seem right. Even though she was. But she would let that roll right off her shoulders. She wouldn't see what he was really trying to tell her.

Maybe the couch just wasn't right. It was too simple. Something Sam was too used to and too comfortable with. It was just too normal. Maybe something more traditionally romantic. Like a formal dinner.

He could take her to a restaurant. But Sam was something of a private person, and Charlie wasn't sure how she'd feel about a grand public proposal. He also did not want it to be something said over the speaker of the restaurant, or that involved the wait staff more than it involved him. It was Charlie proposing, after all. It seemed only fair he be the one to do it. And Sam would most likely never forgive him for going for the overused Hollywood _slip-it-on-the-bread-sticks_ move, or the choking hazard _put-it-in-the-Champaign-glass_ trick. Sam didn't even drink Champaign.

Perhaps during a drive somewhere. Charlie could contact one of Sam's preferred music stations and ask one of the disk jockeys to play a song that really meant something to them, like _Something_ or _Landslide_ or _Blackbird_ or half a dozen other songs the two of them loved together. And as they listened Charlie could quietly tell her about all the great memories with her those songs made him think of. And then at the end the announcer would break through and pop the question.

Only what if in that moment they got to talking about something else and Sam didn't hear? Or what if the deejay got her name wrong or something? Charlie didn't want to risk that. And either way, something about that didn't sit right with him. Again, he wanted it to be he who, when it all came down to it, asked her.

What he needed, Charlie decided, was to find a moment that Sam was most open during. When the little walls of insecurity everybody had up during the hours of an average day would be down. When she was exposed and open and naked to him, and when he could be to her.

Of course he had no intention of proposing to Sam in the shower. A crazy idea, and with his luck he'd drop the ring down the drain or something ridiculous like that.

But naturally his mind started tinkering with the idea. How surprised she'd be when he bent down, the way she'd go from the assumption that he was lowering himself for more sinful purposes, only to see something shiny appear and glisten in the water's stream.

Or perhaps he'd slip it on to the faucet on that pin that you have to pull up to get the water coming through the shower head. And he'd step out of the shower a minute before she did. And when she reached to turn the water off she'd notice it there, and from behind the curtains he'd hear her gasp. And he'd pull them back holding her towel for her - or better yet – holding a veil in its place.

But that idea would first require him to get a veil, and he wasn't sure he could wait for that. The secret was nearly driving him insane as it was. Turning him to a shivering mess. Perhaps he could pretend to be sick somehow and—no. He didn't like that idea. Didn't know where he'd go with it.

He tried to turn his mind back to where it had been before. Before the shower idea, where had his mind wandered?

The word: Naked.

He let the idea roll around in his brain a bit, before wondering what it would be like to propose to her right after the two of them had rolled around a bit themselves.

Right after the throes of passion, when he would hold her and she would be as close to him as it was possible to be. The way they had spoken of before. Maybe he could recall their earlier conversation then.

"I thought of a way we could be closer," he'd comment in almost an offhand way as he ran gentle fingers through her hair.

And she would laugh at him and probably say something like, "Come on, Charlie, we just finished. Don't tell me you're ready for another round already." Or she'd maybe say, "I have work in the morning."

And Charlie could imagine laughing quietly and shaking his head, pretending he hadn't seen that line coming, as if his own train of thought had been so obvious.

"That's not what I meant," he'd tell her.

"Then what?" she'd ask, and he would be able to hear in her tired voice genuine curiosity.

He'd smile and reach over to the night stand and take from the drawer the small black box from the back where he'd have hidden it. He'd pull it out and as he held her against his chest he'd hold it in front of them, and he'd be able to feel her gasp as the realization struck.

He'd hold it there, smiling, in silent anticipation, and finally he could picture Sam's quiet voice breaking the silence with a shocked, murmured, "Charlie…"

And he'd open the case and there it would be. Beautiful and simple, just like their love.

"Marry me?" he'd ask. And he could imagine her agreeing in any number of ways, many of which might make it have been fortunate timing he'd asked her while in a bed.

He smiled at the thoughts, but tried not to let himself get sidetracked. He was considering that chances that presenting that way would lead Sam to think he only loved her for sex, something in his head he knew she knew was the farthest thing from the truth, but his worry was beginning to cloud his thinking.

He started to consider other options. Hiring a skywriter, buying a page in the local newspaper, paying a street performer, arranging a scavenger hunt, making a toast at their friends' next party, slipping a note into the novel she kept by their bed, replacing one of her everyday pieces of jewelry with the engagement ring, spelling it out on a cake, putting it in a fortune cookie, and a half dozen other ways. Everything he thought of he found some minor flaw in. Something to make him nervous. Something that made it not perfect.

And right as he was coming to the realization that perhaps "perfect" was not possible or even what he should be looking for in a proposal, he heard something from across the small abode.

Tumblers in a lock turning. Someone stepping inside.

"Charlie," a familiar voice called, "I'm home."

-END-


End file.
